Poison Pen Pal

Can’t Tell

There is no more evasive bastard in the universe
Than one’s self, I’m fairly certain of that,
And I expect it to remain so,
More of less, from now until the end,
If time has an end, which maybe it does not,

Can’t tell.

There is no more sticky business
or sneaky maneuver in the universe
Than one’s own, and if that’s all you can hope for
You’re doomed maybe to beat your own trumpet,
Haba whosit, stroke your own woody,
What’s the difference, you may ask
As long as it’s stiff,

Can’t tell that either
To anyone who may ask
Except yourself
And you’re sick of it..

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